Kami Westhoff The 2River View, 8.3 (Spring 2004)
Monday Deaths

During the day, terror—fans slicing
heads, dishwashers boiling
kittens, the hammer on the
bed—imagine. Mondays
the worst—the day
off from drinking—
death feels like a state I
can do something about.

He sleeps easily, only a sunburn
and a broken nail to dream. He, who
believes everything isn’t murder
or rape or death. Silly
man, dreaming man, never wakes
jaw clenched, chips of teeth

I dream of bits
of bodies I’ve hidden in
trees or cement. A young woman,
an old man, a new kill to manage.
I’ll forget the carved bone
and crushed faces in minutes. But never
the time it takes to convince myself
what I’m not capable of in wake-time.

Tuesday I woke with his hands
considering my throat. It wasn’t like
that, but I never thought of him
killing. Now he’s a boot
smashing an eyeball, a wire hanger

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